


The Cold of Night

by rosecake



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind melds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-23 07:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11985345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/pseuds/rosecake
Summary: Spock and McCoy are on a diplomatic mission to a strange world when things start to go wrong.  Set afterMirror, Mirror.





	The Cold of Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



"I'm going to catch pneumonia and die," said McCoy. He had a thick jacket on over his normal uniform, but even with the extra layering he was still visibly uncomfortable with the temperature.

Spock sympathized. Even the Enterprise was normally too damp and and cold for his preferences, coming from a desert people as he did, but their current location was far worse. Usually cold air at least meant drier air, but the unusual geography of the continent kept the Arrandoa capital wrapped in a thick, cold fog nearly year round. It wasn't bad enough to kill a human or a Vulcan, though, even if it was unpleasant.

"I'm cold as well," said Spock.

"You're always cold," said McCoy. "You ought to be used to it by now."

"True, but the Enterprise is still a good deal more pleasant than this place," said Spock. "I'm looking forward to being back on it again."

"I hear that," said McCoy. "How long until Jim gets back?"

"Three days at the earliest," said Spock. They'd been on the planet for two weeks, trying to smooth things over with the local politicians and the diplomatic delegation sent to negotiate the Federation's proposed trade treaty with the planet. "It might be up to a week, though. We won't know for certain until they're within range."

"Damn nuisance," said McCoy, referring to unique magnetic fields that roped around the planet and made anything other than short-distance communications near impossible. "And it's creepy here. I'm a grown man, Spock, and I've had nightmares every single night since we landed. It feels like I'm in the start of a horror movie just waiting for the monster to show up."

Spock considered telling him to be more open to alien experiences, as would befit a Federation officer, but the fact was that he found the planet somewhat unnerving as well. The Arrandoa were space-faring, but they were still quite isolated due to the difficulties they faced communicating outside their solar system. Their culture tended to be quite reserved on top of that, and combined with the atmosphere, the effect could be somewhat eerie.

That, and he was already concerned about McCoy. It hadn't been that long since McCoy had been trapped with Kirk and the others on the Enterprises's dark mirror image, and although he hadn't discussed the trip with Spock, Spock still had reason to believe his problems sleeping hadn't started with Arrandoa.

"We'll only be here for a few more days," said Spock, attempting to be reassuring. "We'll manage."

McCoy coughed into his fist. "Yes, well, let's hope I haven't died by then."

***

The hotel lobby was kept just as cold and as damp as the outdoors, because that was how the partially amphibious Arrandoa preferred it, but the situation was better in their rooms. There wasn't much they could do about the humidity, which seemed to permeate everywhere, but they could at least adjust the temperature. There weren't many people in the lobby, which was unsurprising. Spock knew the city was densely populated, but it was hard to tell from being out on the streets, because the Arrandoa seemed to avoid being in public at all costs.

McCoy went to go get a drink from the self-serve cafe, and Spock waited for him by the staircase, where a draft kept the air slightly warmer.

Spock missed the small, pale blue Arrandoa trying to talk to him at first, because it was the first time an Arrandoa had tried to instigate a conversation with him in a non-official capacity since he'd arrived on the planet. He wasn't expecting it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," he said.

"You should stay away from him," said the Arrandoa, gesturing at McCoy. The alien's voice was soft, but it sounded concerned, although it was always hard to read the emotional cues of an unfamiliar species. "He's sick."

"What? I don't understand, what makes you think he's sick?" asked Spock. The Arrandoa said something in response, but the translator swallowed the word, whatever it had been. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand."

"He's sick," repeated the Arrandoa, and it tapped its head. "Here."

Spock wanted it to explain further, but McCoy was walking back to him, and the Arrandoa slipped away before he had a chance.

"What was that about?" asked McCoy, and Spock debated with himself whether he should say anything or not. It had been an odd exchange, and the doctor already seemed unnecessarily on edge. Then again, Spock didn't like keeping information from him.

"He said you were sick," said Spock.

McCoy looked at him strangely. "Why the hell would he say that?"

"I have no idea," said Spock. "The translator couldn't make sense of whatever it was he was trying to say." Spock looked McCoy closely. He looked tired, certainly, but other than that there was no clear sign of illness. Then again, if it were some local affliction, the Arrandoa might very well better recognize signs of it. "You are well, aren't you?"

"I'm fine. Don't make me nervous." McCoy sighed. "This godforsaken planet. I'm going to be so happy to leave it behind us."

***

The next morning McCoy looked worse. There were dark marks under his eyes, and he nearly nodded off more than once in their morning meetings. It wasn't like him.

"Are you sure you aren't ill?" asked Spock. He wondered if he should try and locate a local physician.

McCoy frowned. "I'm not sick, I'm just tired. I didn't sleep at all last night."

Spock was uneasy with that explanation, but he couldn't say why, because it did seem accurate. The doctor looked tired, but there were no other signs of illness, other than the occasional cough. But nearly every human on the diplomatic team had a light cough at this point in their stay, and none of the others seemed particularly affected by it.

"Why aren't you sleeping well?"

McCoy gave him a look, and for a moment Spock thought he was going to get an earful for asking, but instead of tearing into him McCoy merely sighed. "That Arrandoa kid the other day got me spooked. Hell, this whole planet has me spooked. I just didn't sleep well."

Spock nodded. "We won't be here much longer."

"Are you trying to comfort me?" asked McCoy, smiling. He still looked exhausted, but the expression made him seem more like his normal self, and Spock felt some of his own misgivings ease.

Which was illogical. He had no reason for misgivings in the first place. "I was merely stating a fact," he said.

"Of course. I would expect no less from you."

***

They usually met at the base of the stairs in the hotel lobby to leave for the conference center together, but the next morning McCoy never came down. For ten minutes Spock considered that he might simply be late, and then he went and knocked on the door. When that got him no response, he went and fetched the hotel manager to open it for him.

The manager wouldn't get close enough to the door to open it, though. He stopped halfway down the hall and wouldn't go any further. "No," he said, and then he said something else, something swallowed whole by the translator.

Spock resisted the very unhelpful urge to scream.

"I can't understand what you're saying," he said, keeping his voice calmer than he felt. "I just want you to open my friend's door. That's it. Whatever's going on, I'll handle it from there."

"You - no -," said the manager, and there were inexplicable gaps in what he was saying. The translator hadn't had any issues with the language other than with what that pale blue Arrandoa had said earlier, and then again now, and it seemed designed to deliberately frustrate him that it was only having problems now, when Spock most wanted it to work.

The manager said something else, more words that Spock didn't understand.

"Is it because he's sick?" he asked.

The manager hesitated before responding. A few words that the translator didn't even attempt, and then, "Cursed?"

Local mysticism was the absolute last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment, and Spock decided he'd reached the end of his patience with their attempts at communication. "It's fine," he said, "I'll handle it myself."

He walked up to the door, thankful that it was natural wood panelling and not anything metal, and as he approached it he turned and slammed his shoulder into it as hard as he could. The wood of the door gave way around the lock and it popped open, swinging around on the hinges to hit the back wall with a loud crash.

McCoy was still asleep in his bed. The noise from Spock's break-in didn't cause so much as a flicker across his face.

"McCoy? Doctor?" he said, his voice growing louder as he approached, and still there was no reaction. There was no reaction when he shook him, no reaction when he checked his pulse, no reaction when after a moment's hesitation Spock slapped him across the face.

McCoy was breathing, and he was quite clearly alive, but he wouldn't wake up.

***

Spock pulled a chair over to the edge of McCoy's bed. Every landing party that was going to spend more than a day separated from the rest of the ship was meant to include a medic, but in this case McCoy _was_ the designated medic, which was resoundingly unhelpful. Spock had been unable to contact the ship, which was to be expected, and he'd also been unable to get a useful explanation out of any of the locals, which was more frustrating but also to be expected at this point. Searches of the local computer databases had been equally as unhelpful.

After all his attempts to find a solution, or at the very least an explanation, he ended up no further than where he'd started. And when he came back McCoy was in worse shape than when he left. His heartbeat had slowed and his breathing had slowed to match, and his pulse was weaker than a human's should be.

As much as Spock would have liked to wait for the ship, for someone who might have the equipment and expertise to find a solution, he wasn't sure he had the time. And as nonsensical as it might be, he couldn't quite get the image of the Arrandoa tapping its head out of his mind.

He cracked his fingers, knowing full well that he was doing nothing but procrastinating. He sighed, and placed his fingers against McCoy's face.

"I'm sorry," he said, even though McCoy couldn't hear him. And then he let himself slip inside McCoy's mind, as gently as he could.

***

"McCoy?" said Spock, trying to call McCoy's consciousness to the surface.

He was inside McCoy's head, and he was somewhat unnerved by how easy it had been to slip in. It should have been more difficult the first time, especially with McCoy unconscious and unable to help him along with it, but the pathways were already open to him, like he'd been there before. And something that had been bothering Spock for some time clicked into place as he realized that he _had_ been there before. Well, a version of him, at any rate. That, at least, explained why McCoy had been acting oddly since his trip to the other Enterprise.

Spock should have realized it sooner. Mind melds were always a risk, and he somehow doubted that his doppelgänger had taken much care.

"Spock?" asked McCoy. Spock could see him, in his mind's eye, standing before him, but he was strangely remote. Even now, here, where there should have been no distance at all to separate them. McCoy looked tired - no, more than tired, he looked drained. Like he was only half there. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

He sounded upset. "I'm sorry," said Spock, hoping that McCoy understood how deeply he meant it. He should realize it, as closely connected as they currently were, but there was something off about the meld, something that Spock couldn't pinpoint. "You wouldn't wake up, and I couldn't figure out what was wrong. This was the only thing I could think of."

"You don't have to apologize," said McCoy. He still sounded distraught, although not angry. Maybe afraid? Spock was usually better at reading his emotions. "I understand. And it didn't hurt nearly as badly this time."

Spock tried not to flinch. He didn't like to think about what had happened to McCoy in the mirror universe, especially not right after he'd done basically the same thing.

"McCoy, something's wrong here, and need you to help me figure out what it is. You're sick, and you're the doctor."

"I think you should leave," said McCoy.

Spock exhaled in frustration. He didn't like mind melds, his emotions always ended up too close to the surface, and the circumstances weren't helping any. "I'm sorry, I know I don't belong in here, but I need you to wake up."

"You don't understand, I'm not mad," said McCoy, and for the first time it was like he was looking directly at Spock, not somewhere else. There was a fog in his mind surrounding them, not unlike the fog outside in the real world, and none of it felt right. A mind meld wasn't supposed to be like this. Something felt heavy and oppressive, something he couldn't put his finger on. "You don't understand," said McCoy, and his voice was rough, "I'm afraid it's going to get you too."

There should be no real sensation in a mind meld, no physical senses to distract from the mental processes of both parties, but all of a sudden Spock was very, very cold.

"You're right, I don't understand," he said. "What's going to get me?"

"I'm sorry," rasped McCoy. "I don't really understand it, either."

Something brushed up against him, against the edges of his self, something that wasn't McCoy. That sent a surge of fear through him, because in the depths of the mind meld there shouldn't have been anything but McCoy and him. And then all of a sudden it wasn't just brushing up against him, it was wrapping itself around him, so tightly that Spock was afraid he was going to split into fragments.

"Leave," said McCoy, and Spock could barely hear him over the torrential drum of his own heartbeat, somehow echoing through his thoughts. "Just leave it."

And he could. He could break the meld, pull away, and leave whatever it was that was eating at McCoy from the inside out behind him.

But he couldn't do that without leaving McCoy behind as well. And he wasn't sure how much longer McCoy could survive it on his own.

"No," said Spock.

There was no air in his lungs, and it was hard to speak with no air, even though that made no sense. It was a mind meld. He shouldn't need to use his mouth or his lungs at all, except somehow everything felt real, felt physical. Spock forced himself to remember that it wasn't physical. It was mental, and he was a telepath, and whatever this thing was, it hadn't preyed on telepaths before.

"McCoy," said Spock, reaching out for him, reaching out with the heart of himself. "Leonard? I need you. I need to know where you stop and this thing starts. I need you to open yourself up to me."

"I can't," said McCoy.

McCoy wasn't a telepath, he wasn't trained at all in anything to do with telepathy or mind melds, so it wasn't even stubborn refusal. It was pure inability. And after a forced mind meld, after carrying whatever mental parasite was currently draining him for who knew how long, it wasn't surprising that McCoy's first instinct was to try and shut him out.

"I need you to try," said Spock. "I need you to let me in."

Spock could feel the edges of McCoy's mind shift, he could feel him trying, and it was enough to let him slip in and help, let the full mind meld slip into place.

After that, it wasn't hard to find the problem, and it wasn't hard to burn it out. Spock still wasn't sure what it was, but he could feel it die, and that was enough for the time being.

***

Spock slipped out of the meld gracefully, pulling back and giving McCoy his space. McCoy came out of it gasping for air, like he'd been drowning instead of asleep. He pulled up from the bed, his eyes wide, and after a moment of watching him struggle Spock gently pushed him back down again.

"Careful," said Spock. "You've been unconscious for some time now, and your vital signs during that period weren't particularly reassuring. You don't want to push yourself."

McCoy let himself be pushed back against the bed, which Spock found somewhat concerning. He always expected more resistance where McCoy was concerned.

"I feel like I was sleeping for months," said McCoy. "Somehow I'm still tired, though."

"I don't think it was a real sleep," said Spock. "But it should be different now."

McCoy swallowed heavily, enough that Spock could see his throat move, and then he nodded. "What happened? I mean, I was there, but I don't think I understood it."

Spock wasn't sure he entirely understood it, either, but he was willing to hazard an educated guess. "I suspect it was some kind of local mental parasite. They're uncommon, but there are similar things on Vulcan. They feed on the mind. Some of them are relatively harmless, but other types don't stop until the host is dead." He hesitated before continuing. "I think your... experience, with that other version of me, may have left you particularly vulnerable to it."

And if the thing normally leapt from host to host, then in the end it wasn't that strange that the locals considered it some kind of curse or communicable disease. The Arrandoa weren't naturally telepathic, and so likely had little defense against it. It was sensible for them to fear it.

"You're probably right," said McCoy, sounding too tired to question Spock further.

McCoy was asleep again in minutes, and his face was more open this time, his breathing more even. Still, Spock stayed awake the entire time, and he did not feel his own thoughts calm until McCoy woke up again.

***

McCoy was up and walking on his own two feet again by the time the Enterprise returned.

"Thank God," said McCoy. "The last thing I want is to have to be treated in my own sickbay."

"You should at least have Chapel look you over," said Spock.

"I'm not sick," said McCoy. "At least not in any way that medicine can fix."

"I think you might actually have a mild chest cold," said Spock.

"Me? I'm not the one who evolved for a desert climate," said McCoy. He couldn't quite make it through the sentence without coughing, which was immensely satisfying even as Spock felt a bit guilty about it finding it so. At least he was back to his old argumentative self. "Fine," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll talk to Chapel about it."


End file.
